


Galatea, Be Constant

by carouselfancy



Series: Not Another Greek Tragedy [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Young Arthur Morgan, adding tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carouselfancy/pseuds/carouselfancy
Summary: Wilhelmina Landry joined the gang with fire at her heels, but she would leave it in a whisper.She was Galatea, and Pygmalion was never meant to own her.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Not Another Greek Tragedy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963933
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Galatea, Be Constant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: Fire at the end of this chapter, in case anyone needs it.

_This town is sure strange. Folk keep tellin us SHES a tip top silver mine, but I still aint figured out what SHE they talkin about. Hosea and Dutch reckon there is schemes to be had here. This town is rich with silver, has six ! saloons, and a BREWERY. The mayor is some dandy Mister Big the locals reckon works for the mining company._

_I cant wait to rob him.  
  
_

_-  
_

  
July 28th.  
  


The further south he traveled into the Arizona Territory, the more Arthur was beginning to see its merits.

Sure, it was blazing hot in a way that no other place he had visited in his life had been, and sure, the sheer amount of dust in the air made his teeth feel gritty. But the desert was wild, untamed, and full of wildlife he had never seen anywhere else. Towering saguaros, arms raised in worship of the sun, dotted the horizon line like watchful sentries. For most of their travel through the region, there wasn't a soul around for miles, and Arthur could sit back in his saddle and sketch the flora and fauna around him.

But best of all, the Arizona Territory was _filled_ with mining towns.

Within the mostly untouched land ran veins of copper and silver ore, and where there was ore, there was _money_. Tombstone, Wickenburg, Jerome, Kentucky Camp, Hackberry; all had popped up in the last decade or two, and all were flush with ore, which meant prosperous business, and prosperous business meant prosperous _cons_.

Dutch had been tipped off to the wealth that lay within the desert by an overexcited company man he'd met in a saloon in California. He had exclaimed to anyone who would listen that there was enough silver in the mountains to fund a new industrial revolution. Dutch had gotten that gleam in his eye that Arthur had come to recognize, one that meant he was scheming up bigger dreams than Arthur could ever hope to guess at.

Their hit on Jerome had been wildly successful, and the gang had been riding high on their escape south. It had been the practice run, Dutch said, to perfect their technique before moving on to Tip Top, and Arthur saw why.

The town was much larger than any other mining town he'd ever been in, winding through the mountain as though the buildings had risen from the stone. It was bustling with all manner of folk, and not a one seemed content to amble. Buggies whipped through the dusty streets, passing plodding conestoga wagons drawn by large teams of heavy-framed draft horses and laden with several tons of silver ore. Buildings of both brick and wood lined the streets, and the facades were painted with a variety of bright colors, giving the town a metropolitan look despite its remote locale and dusty atmosphere. Early mornings in Tip Top were cool, with the musky scent of waking creosote wafting in on the breeze, while afternoons were arid and the blazing sun created a shimmering heat haze along the horizon.

They had been in Tip Top for just over a week, and Arthur still hadn't explored every part of the town. Dutch had booked them rooms in the nicest hotel available, had given Arthur a fistful of cash, and set him loose. They had a system for casing a town, and it worked like clockwork. Arthur played the handsome, earnest romantic, charming his way into the good graces of the marriageable women in town and asking innocuous questions about the prestige of their families. After enough bashful compliments freely given, some dashing smiles, and a bow or two, debutantes were all too forthcoming about their inheritances and their provenance. From there, robbing their daddies was a bird's nest on the ground, and if he got a few visits to the hayloft on the way, well, he certainly couldn't complain.

Arthur straightened his waistcoat as he spurred his horse away from Jennie Cantrell's home on the outskirts of town, having worked up a fierce thirst _extracting information from her_ , as he called it. She'd been quite forthcoming, mentioning several times her father's profitable stake in the mine, and wouldn't silver make a nice dowry?

Jennie was nice enough, but Arthur had no intention of taking her father's money through marriage.

He steered his horse onto the central avenue through town, his eye on the saloon that stood proudly over the shops beside it. Its vermilion sign and gold lettering were a beacon for thirsty travelers. Arthur had explored two of the other saloons in town and while they were just his brand of seedy, he had heard from folk that the best whisky—and the best women—were found here, at Kimball's.

The place was brightly lit by large pane windows on the front and a grandiose chandelier that felt out of place in the desert scrubland. Twinkling glass baubles dangled on the silver arms of the chandelier, refracting dancing fragments of light across the richly embroidered carpet. As broad and tall as he was, Arthur was accustomed to curious glances his way when he pushed through the batwing doors of a new saloon. Today, he received none. Every patron seemed captivated, watching and clapping and singing along with a band of musicians on a riser against the wall. He doffed his father's hat with a polite nod to the bartender, tapping two fingers on the bar as he always saw Dutch do when he ordered a bourbon.

With his drink cradled in his fist, Arthur pivoted to lean back against the bar, surveying the band with curious eyes. There were four of them, an older man, a younger man, and two young women. They were all family, judging by the blazing red hair on all their heads. The older man was big and burly, but his large fingers plucked at the strings of the banjo in his arms with surprising dexterity as he led the band in a rousing rendition of "Little Liza Jane."

The younger man beside him was grinning at the audience over a well-loved guitar, and a girl who looked much younger was singing along from a piano by the window. Arthur's attention, however, was completely captured by the final player, a girl who looked to be his age bowing a fiddle with quick, precise movements of her arms. He wasn't sure what drew his gaze to her. By most standards, she was no French beauty. Her nose turned up at the end, her figure was too narrow, and her face was speckled with dark freckles that contrasted starkly against her too-tanned skin.

But Arthur was captivated watching her dancing a jig as she played, her movements fluid and in perfect sync with the beat of the song. She whirled as the band swept into the chorus, and her long plait of thick, rust-colored hair whipped around her. There was a wild kind of joy that seemed to radiate from her. Arthur wasn't the only person in the room to notice; while everyone in the saloon was enjoying the band, he could see several heads following her movements as she danced.

The band grew softer as they drifted into the end of the song, and the fiddler's eyes raised from the frets of her instrument and landed on Arthur's. They were a deep, sparkling brown, shining brightly in an unfettered smile—a smile that was directed right at him and made his stomach somersault.

The final note of the song was played with four flourishes in unison, and the fiddler held her bow in the air with triumph. The banjo player took a bow, his broad shoulders seeming to take up the entire stage, and a cheer went up, the applause avid and deafening. Arthur nearly upended his drink in his eagerness to join the din, and he could see the fiddler flush as their eyes met once again. She gripped the skirt of her dress in her hand, dipping into a quick curtsy that felt strangely as though it was just for him, before turning around to pick up a large black case.

"Thank you kindly, folks!" The burly banjo player had a smile just as bright as the fiddler's as he looked out at the unruly crowd. "We thrive on donations, so if you are feelin' generous, may I direct you to my son Matthew, who is standing ever so humble here with his hat in hand?"

A few folks crowded around the young guitar player, while the majority of the crowd dispersed. Arthur slipped expertly through them toward the fiddler, who was still on the stage, laying her instrument into its case. He allowed himself a moment to admire the almost mirror-quality gleam of the fiddle's polished wooden body, trying to commit it to memory for his journal later.

He passed the brim of his hat through his hands as he approached her, his spurs clinking with his steps. She closed the lid of her violin case with a resolute _click_ and turned to meet his gaze, her cheeks and ears still flushed a lovely shade of pink that clashed horribly with her hair.

"Pardon me for intrudin', miss, but I wanted to come tell you that you sounded real nice up there."

The smile she gave him was enchanting: it stretched her lips slowly, and then all at once, revealing straight white teeth and making her face more beautiful than he had first thought.

"Thank you, Mister..."

"Morgan. Arthur Morgan." That wasn't his name in this town. Why had he said that?

"Mister Morgan." Her voice was musical and clear, and his name sounded like a song in her mouth. "My name is Wilhelmina Landry." She held her hand out to him, but upright as if to shake his, instead of palm-down for him to kiss. Arthur clasped it in his much larger one and shook it slowly. Her palm was warm and her fingers almost as callused as his own.

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Landry." Arthur's voice dipped low at that moment, despite the fact that it had finished changing some time ago. He tried not to swear under his breath.

If he hadn't been watching her face so intently, he might have missed the flash of mischief that crossed it when she released his hand.

"I don't believe I've seen you in town before, Mister Morgan," she said, smoothing wrinkles from her calico dress. "You passin' through?"

"Reckon so, miss," he said, stepping out of her way as she headed toward the bar. He fell into step beside her so he could pull out a stool for her. Wilhelmina rewarded him with another brilliant smile. "Ain't quite sure how long for. Got some business in town with my... uncles, lookin' to invest in the mine." That wasn't their story here at all. What was it about her that compelled him to run his mouth? She tossed her braid over her shoulder and ordered a beer from the bartender, before turning to Arthur. That mischievous smile was back.

"Perhaps you need a tour then? I'd be happy to show you around, it's only neighborly."

He couldn't help but grin at her.

"That's real kind of you, miss. I would like that very much."

She clasped her hands together over her chest, looking pleased. "I'm so glad." She reached out as if to take his hand, then pulled back, thinking better of it. "My family are stayin’ at the boarding house at the end of the street, the one with the red door. Will you call on me tomorrow afternoon?"

Arthur blinked at her in surprise, and she laughed. It was a lovely laugh, as musical as every other facet of her seemed to be. "I'd like to walk with you and show you 'round town!"

He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Arthur nodded. "Of course," he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It'd be my pleasure, Miss Wilhelmina."

Her beer appeared in her hand then and she stood, giving him one last long look. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, Mister Morgan."

He couldn't keep his gaze off of her as she glided away to meet up with her family.  
  
  


* * *

 _  
  
Met a_ _girl_ _._

 _I cannot say what, but there is somethin real_ ~~_spesh_ ~~ _special about her._

_She is going to give me a tour of town today. Dutch aint much happy about it, so I had to lie to him and tell him she has a rich grandpappy._

_I think I would still like her if she was the poorest girl in town.  
  
_

_-  
  
_

July 29th.  
  


“I do not understand how courtin’ a _musician_ is helpful to us, Arthur.” Dutch sat in a gold-legged chair at the center of the finest suite the Galena Hotel had to offer. He watched with flinty eyes as Arthur applied pomade to his hair with impatient strokes of his fingers.

“You gave me a job,” Arthur grumbled, flicking a stubborn strand of hair out of his eyes. “I’m doin’ it.”

“I _asked_ you to stay close to _wealthy_ women. Debutantes, widows.” Dutch was enunciating his words in that strange way he had when he grew frustrated, waving the hand that held his rosewood pipe. “Can you explain to me how a violinist—a _fiddler_ —is going to make us rich?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. "She... mentioned somethin' about a rich grandfather," he said finally, moving to the intricate porcelain basin in the corner of the room. He pulled his straight razor out of its case and began to strop it, his strokes a little too wide in his annoyance and his nerves.

"She did, did she?" Dutch sounded thoughtful, puffing on his pipe. Tendrils of smoke curled around Arthur's head. "Well, where did she say she lives?"

Arthur paused his furious stropping and chewed his lip. "She, uh... One of them big fancy houses up the hill," he answered finally. He lathered his brush and dabbed the soap to his jawline. As a second thought, he added, "A blue one?"

There must have been some untruth visible on his face through the soap, because he could see Dutch squinting at him in the mirror. He was not yet as practiced a liar as Dutch and Hosea, after all, though what man was? Hosea Matthews would have to die before any man could claim to be a better liar than he.

Hosea rounded the corner, holding a book in his hand. He grinned at Arthur as he dragged the razor over his face with meticulous strokes. "Mind you stay very diligent and get all three of those whiskers, Arthur!" he quipped, with the smarmy smirk only Hosea could pull off so well. Arthur felt the tips of his ears grow warm and he splashed a glob of shaving foam at Hosea, cursing a blue streak.

Arthur surveyed his face in the small mirror with a critical glare. He lamented to himself over his soft, smooth skin of a boy not quite grown, instead of the coarse and shadowed cheeks of a man.

When he had shaved and dressed, he was still lamenting quietly as he scrutinized himself in the mirror. He’d been going for a look that spoke of wealth and means, but he feared he had landed on “farm boy on his way to church.”

After much deliberation, Arthur decided to wear the blue shirt and black waistcoat he’d purchased with his cut from the Jerome job, as well as his Worsted jacket. Bessie suggested he wear his nice black riding boots and straightened his tie for him. Miss Grimshaw, unable to resist the opportunity to critique a person's appearance, popped into his room to tell him, "Lose the jacket. It makes you look too eager." She, at least, accepted his excuses about working a job without harassing him about it. Arthur suspected that was more a reflection of her opinion on Arthur's personal life than his skill at lying.

The boarding house was not far from their hotel, just a short ride up the north street. She had told him to seek out a red door, but the paint was so peeled and sun-bleached, he almost rode right by. The wood of the building was warped and parched from the desert heat. The damn thing looked like a hazard, but Arthur schooled the distaste out of his face before rapping sharply against the door.

Though muffled behind the walls of the house, Arthur could hear an explosion of activity. Footsteps pounded, voices rang out, and from behind the door, the shuffling and banging sounds he would associate with a scuffle. After a long moment, the door pushed open, revealing a man Arthur immediately recognized as Wilhelmina’s father, the burly banjo player. Up close, Arthur could see that his face was dense with freckles and creased with smile lines. He had bright green eyes that, despite being quite a different color to Wilhelmina’s, sparkled with the same spirit. His arm grasped the edge of the door, and Arthur could see deep brown eyes peering from behind the arm from the dark of the house. Mr. Landry rolled a shoulder to shove the disembodied face away, and a voice whispered, quite loud, “Move, Pa, I wanna see him!”

Arthur figured this must be the younger sister, the piano player. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. He cleared his throat with a nervous cough, pulling his father’s hat from his head.

“Good afternoon, sir.” He had rehearsed what he would say in his head all day, but he hadn’t expected his hands to sweat. “My name is—”

“Mister Morgan!” Mr. Landry clapped Arthur's hand in-between his larger ones, shaking it vigorously. "My daughter told us to expect you. She ain't quite finished dressin’ but you're welcome to come inside to wait!"

Arthur peered into the house, squinting to force his eyes to adjust so he could make out any details, to no avail. In spite of Dutch's voice in his head, he nodded and followed Mr. Landry inside.

The house was much nicer on the inside, untouched by the sun and the dust. It was well-kept, with a clean floral carpet and framed portraits lining the wall. A large book sat on a small table in the entry hall, and upon closer inspection Arthur could see it was a guestbook, halfway filled with names and messages of former boarders.

"Forgive me, but I was a little skeptical of you at first, Mister Morgan," Mr. Landry said from behind him. Arthur turned to face him. He was glancing at Arthur's boots, appraising him, and Arthur resisted shifting under his gaze like a naughty schoolboy. "When a man's daughter tells him she met a young man in the saloon, he might be inclined to wonder at the nature of such a man."

Arthur did not tell Mr. Landry that he was very right to wonder, but he thought it. Instead he smiled.

"I understand, sir. I hope I will pass muster."

Mr. Landry laughed. "Well, you're well-mannered, I'll give you that." He clapped Arthur on the back, and Arthur had to catch himself to stay on his feet. "Name's William, son. You can call me Will. And this here," he gestured to the girl beside him, who was bouncing on the heels of her feet, "is Jessamine, my youngest."

Jessamine held her hand out to Arthur, giggling, so he pulled it to his mouth to kiss the back of it. "It's a pleasure, my lady," he told her in his most gallant voice.

The girl's face turned red enough to wash out her hair. She gave him a fumbling curtsy before she turned and clambered up the stairs, shouting, "Mina!"

A man who looked to be about Arthur's age appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the jamb. He was tall and lanky, with auburn hair and his father's eyes, though they didn't have the same mirth. The son, then. He eyed Arthur critically and Arthur was starting to feel like a show pony having his confirmation evaluated.

"Mister Morgan," Will said, gesturing to his son, "this is Matthew, my oldest, and my last, I assure you."

Matthew lifted his chin in a terse greeting. "'Lo."

Arthur nodded to him. "Good to meet you."

With a sharp exhale that told Arthur their conversation had finished, Matthew pushed off of the jamb and returned to the kitchen. Will shook his head.

"Not much for talkin', Matthew. Can't hardly get a word in edgewise with his sisters around, anyway." Will crossed his arms and leaned against the stair banister. Arthur knew he was being scrutinized again, and it was starting to irk him.

"I trust I ain't gotta tell you, Mister Morgan, that I expect you to treat my daughter with respect," Will said finally, and his gaze turned steely. "Because I would not be so friendly if I were to hear of any untoward behavior."

Arthur gritted his jaw, taking a step toward Mr. Landry. His fist clenched in his pocket. "I assure you, sir, you will not, though I should inform you, I am well acquainted with dealin' with unfriendly behavior, _sir_."

Mr. Landry raised a brow, and the air between them was tense and hard. Arthur bit his cheek, a trick Hosea had taught him for controlling his temper. It would be a very bad idea to try and get rough with a man in his own home while courting his daughter. Even Arthur could figure that out.

The silence stretched out longer and longer, like the time he'd knocked over a spool of Bessie's yarn and it had rolled across the floor. Finally, with a crack of sound, Will burst into raucous laughter, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

"I like your spunk, son," he chuckled, and Arthur blinked at him. "You'll need it for courtin' my daughter."

“Pa, you’d better not be givin’ Mister Morgan a hard time.”

Arthur's head whipped to where Wilhelmina appeared at the top of the staircase, wearing a plain navy dress and a straw bonnet. Despite how faded her dress was and the brim of her bonnet frayed, she looked as fine as any debutante in Tip Top. She didn’t carry herself with the same perfect poise, but her eyes were vibrant and spirited, and her smile was full of songs waiting to be sung. Arthur felt a grin creep across his cheeks and didn’t bother to hide it.

“Miss Landry.” He bowed. “You look real pretty today.”

She descended the stairs without breaking his gaze. “Why thank you, Mister Morgan.” Her father cleared his throat, so Wilhelmina lifted on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Don’t worry, Pa,” she sang over her shoulder as she flitted past him and through the door Arthur held open for her. “I’ll be home at dark!”

“It’s two o’clock, Mina,” he called in response, placing a pipe between his teeth. “You’ll be home before dark and not a minute late.”

“Yes, Father dearest!” She gave Arthur a conspiratorial look and tugged him away from the house.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Arthur managed to call before the door snapped closed behind them.

“I’m sorry about my family,” she said, once they were away from the house and the sun was warm on their backs. She seemed shy now, reaching up to touch one of the loose red curls that fluttered against her cheeks. He thought idly to himself what a shame it was for her to have her hair bound up and hidden under her bonnet.

Arthur pushed his hat back onto his slicked hair. “You should see mine,” he replied dryly. “They could make P.T. Barnum blush like a schoolgirl.”

She laughed, high and clear, and Arthur watched her, enamored by the way she tipped her head back to express her joy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had met a girl so unconcerned with etiquette and carriage. He doubted he ever had.

She turned her head to meet his gaze as they walked, and caught him staring. She didn’t blush, didn’t look away, but met his gaze boldly, unapologetic.

“I’m glad you came today, Mister Morgan,” she said, voice soft.

“I’m glad you invited me, Miss Landry,” he replied, and he tipped his hat. “For the tour, I mean.”

“Of course!” She winked, and Arthur’s pulse jumped. “For the tour. Which I am quite failin’ at already! Why, we just passed by Mrs. Kincaid’s dry goods store without me tellin’ you that this is where you can buy the best johnnycakes in the West but the very _worst_ preserves!”

“I will take your word on that,” Arthur chuckled, eyeing the small, hand painted sign of the grocery.

“Oh!” Wilhelmina grabbed his bicep, pointing down the road. “That right there is the new photography studio! Folks round here was real excited when that came to town, you can buy penny postcards and get your portrait took, and Mr. Givens, the photographer, he has all kinds of props you can use. Real excitin’!”

She kept her arm hooked through his elbow as they walked along the main road through town. She pointed out shops and people that she found interesting, and Arthur tried his best to remember them all. This was more difficult with the heat of her hand on his arm, but he found her very charming. She was more interested in smaller shops, shops that sold curios or art or books, and Arthur was intrigued simply because of the infectious nature of her enthusiasm.

"You mentioned you were in town with your uncles," she said, when they had turned off the main road. "Do you travel with them throughout the year?"

Arthur chewed on his answer for a moment, pretending to brush dust from his trousers. When he straightened, he did his best to appear nonchalant. "Business takes us round to most parts of the country, and we ain't had much opportunity to settle down nowhere. Been just about everywhere by now, I reckon."

"Everywhere?" She smiled at him from the side of her face. "Have you been to California?"

"Came along from there about six months ago," he replied easily.

"Maine?"

Arthur laughed. "Once, couple years back. Too wet."

Wilhelmina grinned mischievously at him. "Have you been to Mexico?"

He gave her a shrug and a nebulous wave. "Sorta. We dipped into Juarez for a bit some time back, and then my... uncle decided it was a den for the 'worst offal of society'—and I quote—so we left."

She sighed, and it was wistful. "I would like to see the east, someday. I was born in Colorado, but ever since we been travelin', my Pa prefers to stay in the southwestern territories and the Texas panhandle. We been in Arizona for the past three years, and in Tip Top for eight months. We do well here, which I guess is why Pa doesn't wanna leave."

"Do you wanna leave?" Arthur watched her face, noting the way her lips pursed at the question.

"I miss grass, and trees," she said after a long moment. "My ma always said I was born with a wild spirit, that I was only half-tamed and someday I was gonna be adopted by wolves." Her smile turned distant for a moment. "It's gonna be hard for me to join my wolf family if all I got around me are the Gila monsters and the coyotes."

Arthur didn't need to ask why she had not introduced him to her mother. Her glassy eyes told him enough. "Were you close with her, your mother?"

She gave him a watery smile. "Very. She taught me to play. She also tried to teach me proper etiquette but," she uses her free hand to hold the skirts of her dress out, revealing worn black preacher boots, "clearly that was a pointless endeavor."

He found he was utterly enchanted by the mud and dust caked on her feet.

She led him by the jail without so much as a passing glance, and Arthur resisted scoping it out for himself lest she notice. Instead, he let her pull him along to the end of the lane, where Wilhelmina pointed with excitement at a large wooden building with broad green doors.

“Here’s my favorite place in all of town,” she said, her voice breathy with excitement. “The livery. You're probably familiar.”

Arthur was, but he loved being in a stable all the same, so he said nothing. Wilhelmina took his hand and pulled him to the stalls at the end of the row. Two large Shire horses, a black and a bay, whickered in greeting. Wilhelmina clicked her tongue in response.

“These two are ours. This is Beethoven,” she said, stroking the nose of the bay horse with fondness. He sniffed her hair, searching for treats, so she pulled a sugar cube from the pocket of her dress. The black horse snorted, affronted, and pushed against the door of its stall.

“And that,” she said, rolling her eyes, “is King George. Because of his ‘inflated and highly deluded sense of his own importance,’ Pa says. He’s as stubborn as they come.”

Arthur reached out a hand to caress King George’s velvet muzzle. King George pushed his nose into Arthur’s palm. “Aw, he’s alright, ain’t you, boy?”

Wilhelmina combed her fingers through Beethoven's mane, watching Arthur with a smile. “You must be good with horses, Mister Morgan. King George don’t usually like strangers.”

Arthur gave her a one-shouldered shrug as one side of his lip lifted up in a grin. He pulled a peppermint from his own pockets and held it out for King George, who lipped it eagerly. “We understand each other, usually,” he said, stroking the horse’s broad cheek with a flat hand. “Horses tend to like me more’n most people ever do.”

“That's a shame. I have found you to be nothin’ but agreeable so far, Mister Morgan.”

He turned to her and found her gazing at him with baldfaced attraction, taking a hesitant step toward him. He pulled his hat from his head, swallowing hard. The air between them was like the static before a lightning storm during a heatwave, so Arthur took a step toward her, reaching for her gloved hand.

"That's kind of you to say, Miss Landry," he murmured. His fingers grazed against the inside of her wrist. Her skin was as soft as the buckskin vest Hosea had given him two years ago. She turned her face up to his, and Arthur had with the sudden urge to map constellations in her freckles with his mouth. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Afternoon, Miss Wilhelmina!" She sprang away from him as a stable boy burst through the door with a bale of hay in his arms. Arthur, returning his hat to his head, busied himself with petting King George. The stable boy didn't seem to think anything was amiss, more focused on stacking the hay bale against the wall than on any goings on that may have preceded his arrival. "Here to visit the gentlemen?"

Arthur sneaked a peek at her from under the brim of his hat. Her face was bright red, which made him smirk.

"Good afternoon, Billy," she said, unable to keep the annoyance completely out of her voice. "I brought my friend Arthur down to meet the horses, yes."

Billy the stable boy jerked upright, looking from her to Arthur with a frown. "Oh. Your friend?" He looked extremely put out, and Arthur didn't blame him, though he didn't feel sorry, either.

"Arthur, this is Billy. He takes good care of the horses here. Billy, Arthur here is... well." She turned to glance at him, looking puzzled. Arthur shrugged. "Well, he's new in town and I'm givin' him the tour."

Billy was glaring at Arthur now. If the boy weren't several years younger than him and quite a bit shorter, Arthur would have half a mind to give him a walloping to put him in his place. Instead, he gave him his most charming smile and held out a hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," he said, his voice mild and pleasant.

"Sure," the boy said. He did not return the gesture. He tipped his hat to Wilhelmina, instead. "Nice to see you, miss. Have a nice day."

He all but ran out of the stable, and Arthur had to resist the desire to laugh. Wilhelmina turned to him, and her cheeks were still pink.

"He likes you," Arthur said with a grin.

"Billy?" She chuckled, touching a hand to her cheek. "I know. Poor thing is too young to know any better."

"Well, I can't fault the boy's taste."

Wilhelmina peered at him from the side of her face, her smile turning sly. "Mister Morgan, I suspect that you may be an incorrigible flirt."

He smirked. "Forgive me, Miss Landry. My uncle does tell me that I would not know good manners if they kicked me in the ass."

It got another laugh out of her, a bark of surprise that turned him smug.

They left the stables in good humor, Wilhemina's arm threaded through Arthur's once more. She took him through several smaller streets in town with more shops she was fond of. She guided him past the firehouse, a jewelry store with windows filled with gleaming blue turquoise, and a saddlery that Arthur made a note to stop by later. The town was full of life, and Wilhelmina appreciated it all. She even seemed to know most of the folks in town, some stopping her to say hello and to give their best to her father.

The horizon was turning pink when they finally rounded a corner to find themselves in front of her boarding house. Wilhelmina pulled out of Arthur's grasp.

"I'd best be gettin' home before Pa gets surly," she said, smiling up at him. Arthur offered her his hand to help her up the steps to her door.

"Thank you for such a thorough tour, Miss Wilhelmina," he told her, removing his hat and holding it to his chest. "Will you let me call on you again sometime?"

She turned to gaze down at him, and her smile grew wider. "I would be glad if you did, Mister Morgan. _Arthur_." Her ears turned pink from the sound of his name in her own mouth. Arthur reckoned he would very much like to hear it again.

"Then I will see you again soon," he said, his grin wide and toothy and foolish.

He smiled all the way back to his hotel room. He watched the sun set from his window as his pencil danced out sketches of her face in the pages of his journal like love letters made in lines.  
  


* * *

  
July 30th.  
  


Something was wrong.

Arthur woke with the acrid smell of smoke burning in his nostrils, and something was _very wrong_.

An orange glow filtered through the window. He shook the fog from his mind enough to reach for the pocket watch on the table beside his bed. It was almost three o'clock in the morning. Nowhere near dawn.

He stumbled to the window, throwing it open. Immediately, smoke hit his lungs, constricting them painfully and making him cough. The source of the orange glow was a fire in the distance, some way down the street. North.

Slamming the window shut, Arthur pulled on the first pair of pants he could find and shoved his feet into his boots. He didn't bother pulling a shirt over his union suit, but he did think to snatch up his bandana before he trotted out of his room and down the stairs.

People were gathering in the street, and the firefighters had arrived with a gooseneck pumper. Arthur moved closer, squinting against the bright light of the fire to make out which building was ablaze.

His heart dropped to his stomach when he came close enough to spot the faded red door. The boarding house.

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, craning his neck in a frantic search for orange heads in the throng. He found a single woman, whom he grabbed a little too roughly, only to find he didn't recognize her.

Volunteer firefighters were cranking the gooseneck pumper frantically, the hose shooting jets of water at the roaring blaze. Now that he was closer, Arthur could see flames swallowing the highest storey of the house like ravenous serpents from the depths of Hades. Men wearing masks to protect from the smoke were charging into the house, carrying blankets soaked in water. Others were using them to beat at the flames on the sides of the house. Arthur grabbed the shoulder of the lead fireman, who was barking orders into a speaking trumpet.

"Have they found any survivors?" he asked the man, shouting to be heard over the roar of the flames. The man's face drooped sorrowfully.

"Not yet. We think the blaze started in one of the bedrooms." His implication was clear, and Arthur felt nausea roll in his stomach. He turned his face up to watch the blaze, the heat of the flames mixing with the cool spray of the hose against his skin.

The somber quiet of the night around the din of the inferno was carved open by a deafening, unearthly scream, and a horrified gasp rolled over the crowd. The scream was female, and Arthur had never heard such awful, bone-chilling agony in his life.

"Someone is still inside!"

"My god."

"How awful."

The voices grew into a panicked crescendo. Arthur didn't know when he had broken away from the crowd, but he found himself dunking his bandana into a water bucket and throwing one of the soaked blankets around his shoulders before diving through the doorway of the boarding house and into the blaze.

The first floor had not yet caught, but smoke blinded and choked him. He tied the wet bandana around his mouth and nose, but there was nothing to do for his eyes. The air was hot and suffocating, and Arthur wondered if this is what he had to look forward to in the afterlife. It was enough to make a man want to give his confession.

The screaming grew louder now. He barreled up the stairs, clutching the wet blanket tight around his neck, begging it to do its job of repelling the flames.

On the second floor, fire fighters beat the flames back with their blankets and buckets, but Arthur could see it was a losing battle. He surveyed the flaming room, his eyes burning. The stairs had not yet gone up, but the fire on the third floor landing was creeping ever closer. Without allowing himself to second guess, he took the stairs two at a time, following the sound of screams coming from above.

The third floor was a lake of fire, with only one room at the back that was not engulfed. It was here that Arthur found her—Wilhelmina. A burning beam had fallen across her back, trapping her. Her fingers scratched rivulets in the wooden floor beneath her as she desperately scrabbled to free herself.

There was no time to think. Arthur surged forward, grasping at the heavy beam with his bare hands. His palms sizzled at the contact, and a shout of pain ripped from his lungs. The smell of burning hair and skin made him gag. He threw the beam to the side and whipped the wet blanket from his shoulders, smothering the flames on and around her. When he was sure she'd been thoroughly doused, he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

Her screaming had subsided but now she sobbed, insensate. Arthur lifted her easily into his arms and carried her to the stairs. "Don't worry, miss," he murmured, more to calm himself than her. "It's gonna be alright."

When he burst from the building with Wilhelmina Landry in his arms, the crowd gasped and clapped and cheered, but Arthur felt half unhinged. He passed her carefully to a group of volunteers on a buckboard wagon. "She needs a doctor, _now_ ," he shouted, his voice ragged and torn from smoke and heat.

It wasn't until he had watched them tear off down the street, horses screaming and Wilhelmina still wailing, that Arthur's knees finally gave out, and he allowed himself to collapse in the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tip Top, Arizona was a real mining town, and was one of the three largest mining towns in Arizona at the time. The Arizona Territory at that time was in a mining boom, with copper, silver and turquoise being in huge demand. This chapter is a bit of a love letter to the Arizonan Old West, which I did not appreciate until I moved away. Don't ask me why, but I genuinely miss the good stink of creosotes in the morning, which is when it breathes.
> 
> Quick disclaimer: Dutch's opinion of Juarez is a notation on the strife between Texas and Mexico at the time and a little bit a commentary on Dutch as a person, and _not_ in any way a reflection of my personal opinion on Mexico, Juarez, or Latine folks.
> 
> Why do I only know how to write agonizingly slow burns? Sorry in advance. If you've read my other fics you know what I'm about.
> 
> Also, please imagine Toby Stephens when you picture Papa Landry, it's very important that you do.


End file.
